
' ■ i> »wi— — i«i»^<i*j I. n>;<n>»J»w*» 



PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE 



William Morris 

From the painlint; by G. F. Watts, R.A. 





PYGMALION AND 
THE IMAGE ^X00 
WILLIAM MORAIS 
I LLV3TIIATED WITH 
PIGTVRE3 BY SIR. ED- 
WARD BVI^E-JONES 




NEWYOIIRRHRVS SELL 
PVBLISHEI^ MOMIII 





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CoBwwinUT mrrwv 
nLARS a-VXr Ho. 

copy B. ' 



Copyright, 190J 
By Robert Howard Russell 



Published October, 19OJ 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

By sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES, Bart. 
Portrait of JVilliam Morris Frontispiece 

^5j^^ From the painting by G. F. Watts, R.A. 

The Heart Desires page 8 

The Hand Refrains " i6 

The Godhead Fires ** 24 

The Soul Attains ** 32 




'ITH the exception of 
"The Doom of King 
Acrisius," " Pygmalion 
and the Image " is the 
only poem of The 
Earthly Paradise for the 
illustration of which 
Burne -Jones actually 
executed a complete series of pictures ; and 
though the finished paintings are but four 
in number, and the original designs, made 
in I 866-1 867, were twelve, the numerically 
smaller set is complete in the best sense, 
since not only does it illustrate fully the 
text and spirit of Morris's poem, but each 
picture in it, though finished with the loving 
care and elaboration which Burne-Jones lavished 
on his paintings, fails of its full significance unless 
considered in its relation to the series of which 
it forms a part. 

In regard to the poem itself, the inspiration 
vii 



of these pictures, even the most casual study will 
bring in its train a conviction that the story as 
told by William Morris is far superior to any other 
version of classic or of modern times. The poem 
(one of the best of those comprised in The 
Earthly Paradise^ is homogeneous and admi- 
rably balanced in all its parts; its superiority, 
however, over all other versions, is not due pri- 
marily to the manner of its narration, but arises 
from its greater spirituality — a finer feeling rather 
than a finer form. Prior to the appearance of 
"Pygmalion and the Image" each narrator of 
the legend had dwelt mainly on the physical 
side, sensuous or sensual according to his tem- 
perament, of the tale. In Morris's version the 
dominant note is the passionate delight — en- 
thusiasm verging upon madness — of the artist 
and craftsman in his own handiwork, reflecting, 
to a marked degree, Morris's own temperament, 
one of the leading characteristics of which was 
his habit of hurling himself headlong into each 

viii 



new project as it claimed his attention from time 
to time. That he was prevented thereby from 
arriving at perfection in any one art need not 
lessen the admiration due to him for his whole- 
souled (though usually short-lived) absorption in 
many and diverse arts. A great poet, in the 
sense that Chaucer, his master and model, was 
great, Morris was not; but no one can deny to 
him the title of an enthusiastic and skilled crafts- 
man of verse. It is this love of craftsmanship 
for its own sake, joined to a remarkable feeling 
for decorative beauty which both possessed, that 
binds the pictures of Burne-Jones and this poem 
by Morris so closely together that they form one 
perfect whole. Even the ideal and wholly im- 
aginary world in which their figures move is the 
same — a land where emotion rather than passion 
bears sway, where the fates of man and of woman 
are determined by a whim of the gods rather than 
dominated by the chivalrous or devout hardihood 
of the individual, 
ix 



In his "Apology" prefixed to The Earthly 
Paradise, Morris clearly and definitely disclaims 
any moral purpose in the poems comprised in it. 

"Why should I strive to set the crooked 
straight?" he writes. How far this feeling was 
shared by Burne-Jones we can never know, but 
nearly all of his biographers are agreed that a 
love of beauty, as he understood it, was his 
main preoccupation, or, to use his own words, 
that a picture should be a "beautiful, romantic 
dream." Julia Cartwright, in her Life and Work 
of Sir Edward Burne-foneSy says : " He never tried 
to point a moral or to teach a lesson; but he 
rescued beauty from the forgetfulness to which 
it seemed doomed in a restless and material age, 
and in so doing has given us an example of the 
highest value." Malcolm Bell, also, writing of 
the art of Burne-Jones and of its critics, expresses 
a like opinion, and his analysis of the paintings 
composing the Pygmalion Series is not only in- 
teresting in itself, but is especially so as showing 

X 



the extent to which the man of letters can read 
his own interpretation into the work of a painter. 
" The four pictures from *The Story of Pygma- 
lion,' " he writes, "also included in The Earthly 
Paradise, again show this preference of the poet 
and the artist for the spirit before the form, pro- 
vided only the last be beautiful. The first, *The 
Heart Desires,' is the idealization of unsatisfied 
longing for the unknown. Pygmalion, a tall, 
dark-haired young man, in a long garment falling 
in straight folds to his feet, stands brooding on 
life's emptiness in the vestibule of his house. A 
sculptured group of the Three Graces denotes his 
profession and at the same time typifies the cold 
beauty of artifice, the beauty of the mind, while 
two girls, seen through the open door, speeding 
along the street in the artless embrace of innocent 
maidenhood, represent the beauty of the body and 
the love that waits his winning; but in neither 
finds he consolation. In the second, *The Hand 
Refrains,' the days of long labor are ended, and 
xi 



the artist's ideal, the cold, pure figure of the yet 
soulless image stands finished on the still rough 
pedestal, surrounded by flakes and chips of marble 
and implements of the sculptor's craft, while 
Pygmalion, chisel and mallet in hand, stays gazing 
in awe at the marvel his hand has achieved, his 
eyes content, but his soul still hungering. Outside 
the window behind him women go about their 
daily business in the city street, and through an- 
other casement, in a recess between him and the 
image, is a glimpse of a garden and a spurt of 
water falling into a marble basin — the constant 
dropping that wears away the stone, as his con- 
stant prayers shall move the goddess Venus to a 
miracle on his behalf. The third bears the 
motto, *The Godhead Fires.' Into the sculptor's 
chamber, silent and solitary, while Pygmalion is 
away in the temple, floats lightly the Queen of 
Love, clad in a soft, transparent robe, flower- 
crowned and bearing a branch of myrtle, emblem 
of marriage rites, her feet brushed and environed 

xii 



by the white wings of her favorite doves. Tow- 
ards her, leaning both arms on one upHfted from 
the goddess's side, an exquisite piece of composi- 
tion, the awakening image stoops from the carved 
capital, blossom-strewn by the adoring Pygma- 
lion, her eyes raised in awe up to the goddess, 
who with fixed gaze and pointed finger inspires 
her with the Promethean fire of life. Lastly, 
* The Soul Attains.' Heart and soul are alike 
satisfied. Pygmalion kneels, looking up in trem- 
bling worship at the beautiful creature who lin- 
geringly yields him her hands, though she still 
gazes out beyond him in dumb amazement at 
the mystery of consciousness that has suddenly 
been born in her. Marble no longer, but not 
yet altogether woman." 

" Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 
time," is even more appropriate to Burne-Jones 
than to its author, William Morris, and it is an 
ever-to-be-regretted misfortune that two poems 
only of those comprised in The Earthly Paradise 
xiii 



should have received at his hands that illumina- 
tive pictorial treatment which he, " the arch- 
dreamer of the nineteenth century," as Cosmo 
Monkhouse styles him, alone could give. Thanks 
to Mr. Frederick Hollyer, we have in the re- 
productions which follow faithful transcripts, in 
all but color, of the original paintings, and can 
carry out, after the lapse of a quarter of a century 
and in another hemisphere, a project which both 
Burne-Jones and William Morris held dear, but 
which neither of them lived to see realized. To 
their memory this book, together with the recently 
re-issued Doom of K'tJig Acrishis^ is dedicated. 



FITZROY CARRINGTON. 



Orienta Cottage, 
Mamaroneck, New York, 
December Eleventh, 1902 




MAN OF CYPRUS, A SCULP- 
TOR NAMED PYGMALION, 
MADE AN IMAGE OF A 
WOMAN, FAIRER THAN 
ANY THAT HAD YET BEEN 
SEEN, AND IN THE END 
^CAME TO LOVE HIS OWN HANDIWORK 
AS THOUGH IT HAD BEEN ALIVE: 
WHEREFORE, PRAYING TO VENUS FOR 
HELP, HE OBTAINED HIS END, FOR SHE 
MADE THE IMAGE ALIVE INDEED, AND A 
WOMAN, AND PYGMALION WEDDED HER. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 




T Amathus, that from the south- 
ern side 
Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian 

sea, 
There did in ancient time a man 

abide 
Known to the island-dwellers, for 
that he 
Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, 
And day by day still greater honor won, 
Which man our old books call Pygmalion. 

Yet in the praise of men small joy he had. 
But walked abroad with downcast, brooding face. 
Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; 
For, sooth to say, the women of that place 
Must seem to all men an accursed race. 
Who with the turner of all hearts once strove. 
So in their hearts must carry lust for love. 

Now on a day it chanced that he had been 
About the streets, and on the crowded quays, 
I 



Rich with unopened wealth ot bales, had seen 
The dark-eyed merchants of the Southern seas 
In chaffer with the base Propoetides, 
And heavy-hearted gat him home again. 
His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain. 

And there upon his images he cast 
His weary eyes, yet little noted them. 
As still from name to name his swift thought passed, 
For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem, 
Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem ? 
What help could Hermes' rod unto him give, 
Until with shadowy things he came to live ? 

Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun. 
The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring 
May chide his useless labor never done. 
For all his murmurs, with no other thing 
He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting. 
And thus in thought's despite the world goes on ; 
And so it was with this Pygmalion. 

2 



Unto the chisel must he set his hand. 
And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace 
About a work begun, that there doth stand. 
And still returning to the self-same place. 
Unto the image now must set his face, 
And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, 
Half loathed, half loved, a little rest to win. 

The lessening marble that he worked upon, 
A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, 
And in such guise the work had he begun. 
Because when he the untouched block did see 
In wandering veins that form there seemed to be. 
Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, 
** O lady Venus, make this presage good ! 

"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid. 
And, not without rich golden ornament, 
Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." 
So spoke he, but the goddess, well content. 
Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, 

3 



That like the first artificer he wrought, 

Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. 

And yet, but such as he was wont to do. 
At first indeed that work divine he deemed. 
And as the white chips fi-om the chisel flew 
Of other matters languidly he dreamed, 
For easy to his hand that labor seemed. 
And he was stirred with many a troubling thought. 
And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought. 

And yet, again, at last there came a day 
When smoother and more shapely grew the stone, 
And he, grown eager, put all thought away 
But that which touched his craftsmanship alone; 
And he would gaze at what his hands had done, 
Until his heart with boundless joy would swell 
That all was wrought so wonderfully well. 

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, 
And with his pride that by his mastery 



This thing was done, whose equal far and wide 
In no town of the world a man could see, 
Came burning longing that the work should be 
E'en better still, and to his heart there came 
A strange and strong desire he could not name. 

The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, 
A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair ; ^ 

Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, 
And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were 
That thence he could behold the marble hair, 
Naught was enough, until with steel in hand 
He came before the wondrous stone to stand. 

No song could charm him, and no histories 
Of men's misdoings could avail him now — 
Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes 
If men had said, ''The fierce Tyrrhenians row 
Up through the bay; rise up and strike a blow 
For life and goods"; for naught to him seemed dear 
But to his well-loved work to be anear. 



Then vexed he grew, and, knowing not his heart, 
Unto himself he said, " Ah, what is this 
That I who oft was happy to depart 
And wander where the boughs each other kiss 
'Neath the west wind, now have no other bUss 
But in vain smoothing of this marble maid. 
Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed ? 

*' Lo ! I will get me to the woods and try 
If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite, 
And then, returning, lay this folly by. 
And eat my lill, and sleep my sleep anight. 
And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright 
Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed 
The Theban will be good to me at need." 1 

With that he took his quiver and his bow. 

And through the gates of Amathus he went, ^ 

And towards the mountain slopes began to go, j 

Within the woods to work out his intent. ', 

Fair was the day, the honied bean-iield's scent | 



The west wind bore unto him ; o'er the way 
The glittering, noisy poplar leaves did play. 

All things were moving ; as his hurried feet 
Passed by, within the flowery swath he heard 
The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet 
Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred 
On the field's edge ; the brown bee by him whirred. 
Or murmured in the clover flowers below; 
But he with bowed-down head failed not to go. 

At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, 
"Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by. 
The day is getting ready to be dead ; 
No rest, and on the border of the sky 
Already the great banks of dark haze lie ; 
No rest — what do I midst this stir and noise ? — 
What part have I in these unthinking joys ?" 

With that he turned, and towards the city gate 
Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came, 

7 



And cast his heart into the hands of fate ; 
Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame 
That strange and strong desire without a name ; 
Till panting, thinking of naught else, once more 
His hand was on the latch of his own door. 

One moment there he lingered, as he said, 
"Alas! what should I do if she were goner" 
But even with that word his brow waxed red 
To hear his own lips name a thing of stone, 
As though the gods some marvel there had done. 
And made his work alive ; and therewithal. 
In turn, great pallor on his face did fall. 

But with a sigh he passed into the house; 
Yet even then his chamber door must hold. 
And listen there, half blind and timorous. 
Until his heart should wax a little bold ; 
Then, entering, motionless and white and cold, 
He saw the image stand amidst the floor 
That whitened was by labor done before. 



T^he Heart Desires 



■■■^;^>. .-:;.-*V TiMP'' 



Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught. 
And, drawing near and sighing, tenderly 
Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, 
E'en as he used to pass the long days by ; 
But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, 
And on the floor the useless steel he flung. 
And, weeping loud, about the image clung. 

"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee, then. 
That thus thou mockest me ? I know indeed 
That many such as thou are loved of men. 
Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead 
Into their net, and smile to see them bleed ; 
But these the gods made, and this hand made thee. 
Who wilt not speak one little word to me." 

Then from the image did he draw aback 
To gaze on it through tears ; and you had said. 
Regarding it, that little did it lack 
To be a living and most lovely maid ; 
Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid 
9 



Over the lovely shoulders ; with one hand 
Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand; 

The other held a fair rose over-blown ; 
No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes 
Seemed as if even now great love had shown 
Unto them, something of its sweet surprise. 
Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries. 
And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed. 
As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. 

Reproachfully beholding all her grace, 
Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed. 
And then at last he turned away his face 
As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide ; 
And thus a weary while did he abide, 
With nothing in his heart but vain desire. 
The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. 

But when again he turned his visage round 
His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, 

lO 



As if some little solace he had found. 
Although his folly none the more had slept, 
Rather some new-born, god-sent madness kept 
His other madness from destroying him. 
And made the hope of death wax faint and dim; 

For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street 
Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy 
He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet 
Unto the chamber where he used to lie. 
So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, 
Unwitting of his woe, they set it down. 
Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown. 

Then to his treasury he went, and sought 
For gems for its adornment, but all there 
Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and naught. 
Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair. 
So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare, 
And from the merchants at a mighty cost 
Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost. 
II 



These, then, he hung her senseless neck around. 
Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, 
Then cast himself before her on the ground, 
Praying for grace for all that he had done 
In leaving her untended and alone ; 
And still with every hour his madness grew 
Though all his folly in his heart he knew. 

At last asleep before her feet he lay. 
Worn out with passion, yet this burning pain 
Returned on him, when w^ith the light of day 
He woke and wept before her feet again ; 
Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain. 
Into his garden passed, and therefrom bore 
Fresh spoil of flowers his love to lay before. 

A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid. 
Was in his house, that he a while ago 
At some great man's command had deftly made. 
And this he now must take and set below 
Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow 

12 



About sweet wood, and he must send her thence 
The odor of Arabian frankincense. 

Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, 
"Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak. 
But I perchance shall know when I am dead. 
If this has been some goddess' sport, to seek 
A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak 
To set her glorious image, so that he. 
Loving the form of immortality, 

" May make much laughter for the gods above : 
Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee 
Then take my life away, for I will love 
Till death unfeared at last shall come to me, 
And give me rest, if he of might may be 
To slay the love of that which cannot die. 
The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pass by." 

No word, indeed, the moveless image said. 
But with the sweet, grave eyes his hands had wrought 

13 



Still gazed down on his bowed, imploring head ; 
Yet his own words some solace to him brought, 
Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught 
With something like to hope, and all that day 
Some tender words he ever found to say ; 

And still he felt as something heard him speak ; 
Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes 
Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, 
And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, 
Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, 
And read aloud the sweetness hid therein 
Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. 

And when the sun went down, the frankincense 
Again upon the altar-flame he cast. 
That through the open window floating thence 
O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed ; 
And so another day was gone at last. 
And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep. 
But now for utter weariness must sleep. 



H 



But in the night he dreamed that she was gone, 
And, knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake. 
And could not, but, forsaken and alone. 
He seemed to weep as though his heart would break; 
And when the night her sleepy veil did take 
From off the world, waking, his tears he found 
Still wet upon the pillow all around. 

Then at the first, bewildered by those tears. 
He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept. 
But suddenly remembering all his fears. 
Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt ; 
But still its wonted place the image kept. 
Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy 
Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh. 

Then came the morning offering, and the day. 
Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet. 
From morn, through noon, to evening passed away; 
And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet, 
He saw the sun descend the sea to meet ; 
And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept 
Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept. 

15 




|UT the next morn, e'en while the 
incense-smoke 
At sun -rising curled round about 

her head, 
Sweet sound of ' songs the wonted 

quiet broke 
Down in the street, and he by some- 
thing led. 
He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid. 
And through the freshness of the morn must see 
The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy; 

Damsels and youths in wonderful attire, 
And in their midst upon a car of gold 
An image of the Mother of Desire, 
Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown old. 
Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. 
Colored like flame, enwrought with precious things, 
Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. 

Then he remembered that the manner was 
That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take 

i6 



The Hand Refrains 



Thrice in the year, and through the city pass, 

And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake; 

And through the clouds a light there seemed to break 

When he remembered all the tales well told 

About her glorious, kindly deeds of old. 

So his unfinished prayer he finished not, 
But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet, 
And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot. 
He clad himself with fresh attire and meet 
For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet 
Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head. 
And followed after as the goddess led. 

But long and vain unto him seemed the way 
Until they came unto her house again ; 
Long years, the while they went about to lay 
The honey-hiding dwellers on the plain, 
The sweet companions of the yellowing grain 
Upon her golden altar; long and long 
Before, at end of their delicious song, 
17 



They stripped her of her weed with reverent hands 
And showed the ivory Umbs his hand had wrought ; 
Yea, and too long e'en then ere those fair bands. 
Dispersing here and there, the shadow sought 
Of Indian spice-trees o'er the warm sea brought, 
And toward the splashing of the fountain turned. 
Mocked the noon sun that o'er the cloisters burned. 

But when the crowd of worshippers was gone. 
And through the golden dimness of the place 
The goddess' very servants paced alone. 
Or some lone damsel murmured of her case 
Apart from prying eyes, he turned his face 
Unto that image made with toil and care. 
In days when unto him it seemed most fair. 

Dusky and dim, though rich with gems and gold. 
The house of Venus was. High in the dome 
The burning sunlight you might now behold; 
From nowhere else the light of day might come. 
To curse the Shame-faced Mother's lovely home ; 

i8 



A long way off the shrine, the fresh sea-breeze. 
Now just arising, brushed the myrtle-trees. 

The torches of the flower-crowned, singing band 
Erewhile, indeed, made more than daylight there. 
Lighting the painted tales of many a land. 
And carven heroes, with their unused glare ; 
But now a few soft, glimmering lamps there were. 
And on the altar a thin, flickering flame 
Just showed the golden letters of her name. 

Blue in the dome yet hung the incense-cloud. 
And still its perfume lingered all around ; 
And, trodden by the light-foot, fervent crowd. 
Thick lay the summer flowers upon the ground. 
And now from far-off halls uprose the sound 
Of Lydian music, and the dancer's cry, 
As though some door were opened suddenly. 

So there he stood, that help from her to gain. 
Bewildered by that twilight midst of day ; 
19 



Downcast with listening to the joyous strain 

He had no part in, hopeless with delay 

Of all the fair things he had meant to say ; 

Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast. 

From stammering lips and pale these words there passed: 

"O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know 
What thing it is I need, when even I, 
Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, 
Can frame no set of words to tell thee why 
I needs must pray? Oh, help me or I die! 
Or slay me, and in slaying take from me 
Even a dead man's feeble memory. 

"Say not thine help I have been slow to seek; 
Here have I been from the first hour of morn. 
Who stand before thy presence faint and weak. 
Of my one poor delight left all forlorn; 
Trembling with many fears, the hope outworn 
I had when first I left my love, my shame. 
To call upon thine oft-sung, glorious name." 

20 



He stopped to catch his breath, for as a sob 
Did each word leave his mouth; but suddenly, 
Like a live thing, the thin flame 'gan to throb 
And gather force, and then shot up on high 
A steady spike of light, that drew anigh 
The sunbeam in the dome, then sank once more 
Into a feeble flicker as before. 

But at that sight the nameless hope he had. 
That kept him living midst unhappiness, 
Stirred in his breast, and with changed face and glad 
Unto the image forward must he press 
With words of praise his first word to redress ; 
But then it was as though a thick, black cloud 
Altar and fire and ivory limbs did shroud. 

He staggered back, amazed and full of awe; 
But when, with anxious eyes, he gazed around, 
About him still the worshippers he saw 
Sunk in their wonted works, with no surprise 
At what to him seemed awful mysteries; 

21 



Therewith he sighed and said, **This, too, I dream. 
No better day upon my life shall beam." 

And yet for long upon the place he gazed 
Where other folk beheld the lovely Queen; 
And while he looked the dusky veil seemed raised, 
And everything was as it erst had been ; 
And then he said, *' Such marvels I have seen 
As some sick man may see from off his bed — 
Ah, I am sick, and would that I were dead!" 

Therewith, not questioning his heart at all. 
He turned away and left the holy place. 
When now the wide sun reddened towards his fall, 
And a fresh west wind held the clouds in chase; 
But coming out, at first he hid his face. 
Dazed with the light, and in the porch he stood. 
Nor wished to move or change his dreary mood. 

Yet in a while the freshness of the eve 
Pierced to his weary heart, and with a sigh 



22 



He raised his head and slowly 'gan to leave 
The high, carved pillars; and so presently 
Had passed the grove of whispering myrtles by. 
And, mid the many noises of the street, 
Made himself brave the eyes of men to meet. 

Thronged were the ways with folk in gay attire, 
Nursing the end of that festivity ; 
Girls fit to move the moody man's desire 
Brushed past him, and soft, dainty minstrelsy 
He heard amid the laughter, and might see. 
Through open doors, the garden's green delight. 
Where pensive lovers waited for the night ; 

Or resting dancers round the fountain drawn. 
With faces flushed unto the breeze turned round. 
Or wandering o'er the fragrant, trodden lawn, 
Took up their fallen garlands from the ground; 
Or languidly their scattered tresses bound. 
Or let their gathered raiment fall adown. 
With eyes downcast beneath their lovers' frown. 

23 



What hope PygmaHon yet might have, when he 
First left the pillars of the dreamy place, 
Amid such sights had vanished utterly. 
He turned his weary eyes from face to face, 
Nor noted them, as at a lagging pace 
He gat towards home, and still was murmuring, 
** Ah, life, sweet life! the only godlike thing!" 

And as he went, though longing to be there 
Whereas his sole desire awaited him, 
Yet did he loath to see the image fair. 
White and unchanged of face, unmoved of limb. 
And to his heart came dreamy thoughts and dim 
That unto some strange region he might come. 
Nor ever reach again his loveless home. 

Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, 
And, as a man awaking from a dream, 
Seemed waked from his old folly; naught seemed good 
In all the things that he before had deemed 
At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed 

24 



/ 



The Godhead Fires 



Cold light of day — he found himself alone, 
Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. 

And yet for that past folly must he weep. 
As one might mourn the parted happiness 
That, mixed with madness, made him smile in sleep ; 
And still some lingering sweetness seemed to bless 
The hard life left of toil and loneliness. 
Like a past song too sweet, too short, and yet 
Immeshed forever in the memory's net. 

Weeping he entered, murmuring, " O fair Queen, 
I thank thee that my prayer was not for naught ; 
Truly a present helper hast thou been 
To those whe faithfully thy throne have sought! 
Yet, since with pain deliverance I have bought. 
Hast thou not yet some gift in store for me. 
That I thine happy slave henceforth may be .?" 

25 




us to his chamber at the last 
he came, 
And, pushing through the still half- 
opened door. 
He stood within; but there, for 

very shame 
Of all the things that he had done 
before. 
Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, 
[Thinking of all that he had done and said 
Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. 

Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place 
Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air ; 
So gaining courage, did he raise his face 
Unto the work his hands had made so fair, 
And cried aloud to see the niche all bare 
Of that sweet form, while through his heart again 
There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. 

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do 
With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, 

26 



A shaft of new desire now pierced him through, 
And therewithal a soft voice called his name; 
And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame. 
He saw, betwixt him and the setting sun. 
The lively image of his loved one. 

He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, 
Her very lips, were such as he had made. 
And though her tresses fell but in such guise 
As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed 
In that fair garment that the priests had laid 
Upon the goddess on that very morn, 
Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. 

Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear. 
Simple and sweet as she was won\; to be. 
And once again her silver voice rang clear. 
Filling his soul with great felicity. 
And thus she spoke: ** Wilt thou not come to me, 
O dear companion of my new-found life, 
For I am called thy lover and thy wife? 

27 



" Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say 
That was with me e'en now, Pygmalion, 
My new-made soul I give to thee to-day. 
Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won. 
And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon! 
Come, love, and walk with me between the trees. 
And feel the freshness of the evening breeze. 

f 

" Sweep ?nine hair round thy neck ; behold my feet. 
The oft-kissed feet thou thoughtst should never move, 
Press down the daisies! draw ??ie to thee, sweet, 
And feel the warm heart of thy living love 
Beat against thine, and bless the Seed of fove. 
Whose loving, tender heart hath wrought all this. 
And wrapped us both in such a cloud of bliss. 

" Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean ! 
Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I 
Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen ; 
But this I know, I would we were more nigh, 
I have not heard thy voice but in the cry 



28 



Thou utteredst then, when thou beUevedst gone 
The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone." 

She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes 
Gazed into his; but he the lingers caught 
And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies 
Passing all words, yea, wellnigh passing thought. 
Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought. 
Felt the warm life within her heaving breast 
As in his arms his living love he pressed. 

But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, 
" Wilt thou not speak, O love ? Why dost thou weep r 
Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day. 
Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep 
This that thou boldest, but in dreamy sleep ? 
Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, 
And hand in hand walk through thy garden green; 

"Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me. 
Full many things whereof I wish to know; 

29 



And as we walk from whispering tree to tree 
Still more familiar to thee shall I grow. 
And such things shalt thou say unto me now 
As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, 
A madman, kneeling to a thing of stone." 

But at that word a smile lit up his eyes. 
And therewithal he spake some loving word. 
And she at first looked up in grave surprise 
When his deep voice and musical she heard. 
And clung to him as somewhat grown afeard; 
Then cried aloud and said, ** O mighty one ! 
What joy with thee to look upon the sun!" 

Then into that fair garden did they pass. 
And all the story of his love he told ; 
And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass. 
Beneath the risen moon could he behold 
The bright tears trickling down ; then, waxen bold, 
He stopped and said, **Ah, love, what meaneth this? 
Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss?" 



30 



Then both her white arms round his neck she threw, 
And, sobbing, said: "O love, what hurteth me? 
When first the sweetness of my hfe I knew, 
Not this I felt; but when I first saw thee 
A little pain and great felicity 
Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now 
Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow." 

"O sweet," he said, "this thing is even love. 
Whereof I told thee; that all wise men fear. 
But yet escape not; nay, to gods above. 
Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. 
But let my happy ears, I pray thee, hear 
Thy story, too, and how thy blessed birth 
Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth." 

"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise. 
Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell ; 
But listen : when I opened first mine eyes 
I stood within the niche thou knowest well, 
And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell, 

31 



Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear, 
And but a strange, confused noise could hear. 

" At last mine eyes could see a woman fair. 
But awful as this round, white moon o'erhead. 
So that I trembled when I saw her there. 
For with my life was born some touch of dread. 
And therewithal I heard her voice, that said, 
* Come down, and learn to love and be alive, 
For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.' 

"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much. 
Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all. 
Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch ; 
And when her fingers thereupon did fall. 
Thought came unto my life, and therewithal 
I knew her for a goddess, and began 
To murmur in some tongue unknown to man. 

"And then, indeed, not in this guise was I; 
No sandals had I, and no saffi^on gown. 



32 



^he Soul Attains 



But naked as thou knowest utterly, 
E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown; 
And this fair, perfumed robe then fell adown 
Over the goddess' feet, and swept the ground, 
And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. 

"But when the stammering of my tongue she heard 
Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid. 
And spoke again : * Nay, say not any word ; 
All that thine heart would say I know unsaid. 
Who even now thine heart and voice have made ; 
But listen rather, for thou knowest now 
What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. 

"*Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, 
A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought. 
I give thee to him as his love and wife. 
With all thy dowry of desire and thought. 
Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought. 
Now from my temple is he on the way. 
Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday. 
33 3 

LcfC. 



***Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there, 
And when thou seest him set his eyes upon 
Thine empty niche, and hearest him cry for care, 
Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, 
And certainly thy lover hast thou won ; 
But when he stands before thee silently, 
Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' 

"With that she said what first I told thee, love. 
And then went on : * Moreover, thou shalt say 
That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, 
Have wrought for him this long-desired day; 
In sign whereof these things that pass away. 
Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, 
I give thee for thy wedding-gear, O maid.' 

"Therewith her raiment she put off from her. 
And laid bare all her perfect loveliness. 
And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, 
And on my mortal lips her lips did press. 
And said, ' Now herewith shalt thou love no less 



34 



Than Psyche loved my son in days of old. 
Farewell. Of thee shall many a tale be told.' 

"And even with that last word was she gone — 
How, I know not — and I my limbs arrayed 
In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone. 
Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said. 
For now I love thee so, I grow afraid 
Of what the gods upon our heads may send — 
I love thee so, I think upon the end." 

What words he said? How can I tell again 
What words they said beneath the glimmering light? 
Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men 
As each to each they told their great delight. 
Until for stillness of the growing night 
Their soft, sweet, murmuring words seemed growing loud, 
And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. 



THE END 



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